


mark me (i’m yours)

by TheSkinHorse



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem
Genre: Episodes 1x01 to 1x05, F/F, Loss of Virginity, Scylla stan for life, Smut, Witch Marks, a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23984317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSkinHorse/pseuds/TheSkinHorse
Summary: Scylla finds Raelle’s witch mark.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 28
Kudos: 320
Collections: Gays in Fort Salem





	mark me (i’m yours)

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t stop with these two. I’ve had this idea ever since Raelle told Tally where her mark was. Sorry not sorry. This is unbeta’d.

The first time you find Raelle’s mark, you almost miss it; not because it’s overly hidden, but because Raelle is so relentless in her desire that you find yourself in a haze, sweltering in the inferno that is the blonde witch.

You’re breathless and boneless by the time she’s done, collapsed next to you with a big grin that is only slightly cocky. She’s mostly just overjoyed, her eyes bright and happy when they look at you. It’s infectious, that look in her eye, and you return it with a smile.

You kiss, and bite softly at her lip when you part. You can taste yourself on her mouth and it spurs the hunger inside you. “It’s my turn,” you quip, and you both laugh.

Raelle was a whirlwind but you take your time, licking a hot path from ear to chest, then detouring to give each breast the attention it deserved. She arches into you when you run the edge of your teeth against a sensitive nipple, her hands flying to mesh into your hair.

You expect her to push and pull but her grip remains gentle, almost reverent. She was rough in her ministrations with you, proven by the blooming bruises across your thighs, but when the tables are turned she is painstakingly tender as you explore her body. It feels a lot like surrender, and the implication is not lost on you.

You leave soft, slow kisses down her ribs and across her stomach. Her muscles jump beneath your touch and grow taut. By the time you sweep down to her hips, she is tightly wound, a bubble ready to burst, and you hadn’t even gotten to the sweet spot yet.

You drag your fingers through the tight blonde curls at the apex of her thighs and she spreads herself for you, an unspoken invitation. You glance up only to find her eyes are shut, her mouth agape, breath shallow. She looks every bit a masterpiece, vulnerable and unashamed. And so very beautiful.

You are just about to dip your tongue into her when you catch sight of it in the corner of your eye - a faint but undeniable witch’s mark, almost obscured by the edge of her trimmed hair. There’s a shot of guilt that runs through you when you realize that it’s not yet glossy from previous encounters.

Well, at least you can start her off right.

Where you don’t waste words, speaking only to guide - _a_ _little_ _bit_ _left_ , _a_ _little_ _bit_ _faster_ , _right_ _there_ \- Raelle can’t seem to stem the string of expletives that tumble out when you begin. You swirl the swollen nub around with your tongue, a languid action that draws a heavy response. She groans loudly and gasps with each flick of your tongue, each catch of your teeth against the soft flesh.

When you tease her entrance with a finger, she begins repeating your name like a mantra, one that only rises in intensity as you push inside, one agonizing inch at a time. She grinds against your hand in a desperate search for more, which turns to sporadic bucking when you finally add a second and begin to thrust.

“ _Scylla_ , _oh_ _shit_ , _Scylla_ , _please_ _Scylla_.” You wonder briefly if she could make a spell from your name. For how wet it makes you, perhaps it was already some sort of magic.

Three turns out to be the charm. She whines and begs at that point, crashes your lips together and holds you impossibly close. Her grip is a vice and her body is steel, perched on the edge of euphoria. You suck hard on her bottom lip and drop your thumb to rub her _just_ _there_ before giving her the final push that she needs to go over.

“Come for me Raelle,” you tell her, and she comes undone in an instant. This is a girl that never does anything half-way, and her unraveling is no exception. She moans heavily into your kiss, her body quivering and pulsating around you, then finally going limp. Her heart is pounding and you can feel it reverberating through you.

If passion is the source of a witch’s power, you feel that you two should be invincible then.

She hisses - a mixture of pleasure and soreness - when she finally relaxes enough that you can pull out, and you wipe your hand nonchalantly against the sheets. A little laundry is a small price to pay for such an exquisite time.

You’re curled into her side afterwards as you trace idle patterns across her collarbone. Raelle’s own fingers dance occasionally over your restless hand until sleep overtakes her.

Every time after that fateful night, when you bask in the afterglow of thirst thoroughly quenched, you consider that now-shining witch’s mark of hers in that intimate spot. You wonder more and more why the Spree wants her, although knowing that natural power thrumming through her is part of the reason. And then you wonder more and more if you’ll be able to deliver her to them when the time comes.

She sighs against your cheek, nuzzling in for comfort for yet another shared slumber. Your throat constricts - there is definitely another mark of hers you have to consider: one that is etched into your own heart, as brilliant and alarming as the fading sun peering through the window.

At least for now, she’s yours.


End file.
